Once Upon A Dream
by smileyfacebabe
Summary: Stiles dreams he's in a forest, in the rain, clutching a gun as a figure walks towards him. There's a door at his back. He shakes and cannot wake up. s3B


Author's Note: I temporarily fell into the Hobbit fandom? And that means I didn't want to write anything but Tolkien shit. Not that I wrote much Tolkien shit, but I read a hell of a lot of it. But Teen Wolf has come back and with it my ability to think of something other than Middle Earth. This isn't light or fluffy or anything like that though, so you've been warned. Also maybe could be considered spoilers for e1s3B?

Disclaimer: Don't own shit.

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Stiles fell and then he dreamt.

Or was it that he dreamt and then fell? He wasn't sure. He couldn't remember why he was in the woods, in the pouring rain, clutching his father's spare firearm in two frozen shaking hands. He couldn't remember where Scott had gone, whether or not Isaac and Allison had gone with him or simply vanished. He knelt in the mud, dazed, hair plastered to his face and vision blurry with water. His breaths came in shallow pants and he couldn't feel his limbs. He hadn't felt this cold and shaken since climbing out of the ice bath at Deaton's.

"Wake up," he muttered to himself, trying to stagger to his feet. It was just a dream, but he could taste the stale bile-like musk of his own fear in the back of his throat and his heart beat triple time. "C'mon, it's just a dream; wake _up_."

The woods howled around him, the storm or a werewolf, he couldn't be sure. His fingers shook around the butt of the gun. Something moved in the darkness in front of him, something that kicked all his sense into high gear. He vaguely recalled the feeling of betrayal, of being chased, screaming himself hoarse for everyone to get out of there. He didn't remember anything else.

God, but he fucking hated the vivid dreams. Usually there was a door around, but not always, and he shuffled around in the mud, shaking, desperately looking for a door so that he could slam that motherfucker shut. The dreams had gotten a little easier to handle after Deaton had specified that he shouldn't be opening the door. Once he shut the door he could scream himself awake and find Scott.

Someone stepped out darkness, their body moving towards his. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think; he scrambled back until he was pressing against the rocky slope he had fallen down. His back knocked into something wooden, something warm; it creaked as it moved with his weight. He knew what it was without glancing back, but he couldn't keep himself from turning, even though the body walking toward him made everything inside him panic.

His back was pressed against a door, one that creaked open a little bit more even as he pressed back against it. Someone said his name, the sound twisting his gut, and he flicked off the safety of his father's gun as he twisted back around.

"Wake up," he whispered, forcing the words out with his every breath. The figure moved closer, looming above him; reflective eyes and claws like knives, that was all he could tell in the dark. "Wake up, wake up, wake up, _wake up_."

"Stiles," the looming figure said. It was familiar, with broad shoulders and short cut hair, but the door behind him delighted in their presence. Anything that the door delighted in wasn't good, wasn't safe and Stiles squeezed his finger around the trigger.

His mother had always said hard rain was like a naughty hippo playing in the bath. His mother had a lot of silly ridiculous phrases for things, most of which she made up on the spot. She'd once called lightning a flash of truth across the sky.

The gun went off a second before the lightning flashed, which meant that Derek was still upright and staring at him when the forest was illuminated. Stiles screamed, wordless and terrified, shoving himself backward in an effort to close the door behind him. But there was no door behind him and he was left scrambling in the mud, shaking and screaming as Derek Hale's body fell limply to the ground. There was one neat bullet wound in his head, nearly center between his eyes, and his arm fell heavy against Stiles' shoes as the corpse collapsed face first in the ground.

"Derek," Stiles choked out. There was no door behind him. His fingers dropped the gun numbly, suddenly shaking too much to hold it any longer. If his wrist hurt from the recoil, Stiles couldn't tell. He didn't move to touch the body, his hands coming up to cradle his head. The thunder's boom echoed through the forest, shaking Stiles down to his bones. "Derek, no, no, no, you can't do this, you can't _do this to me_, get up, get up, sourwolf, if you don't _get up right now-" _ He choked on the words, curling tightly into himself. The rain beat against his shoulders, dripped into his eyes, and the body as his feet didn't move at all.

"_Wake up,_" Stiles screamed.

But he couldn't wake up if he wasn't actually dreaming, now could he?


End file.
